


By None Other

by starwarned



Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [23]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, COC 2020, COC Day 25, Carry On Countdown, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2020, Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown Day 25, CoC, DAY 15 - Parallel universe, Happy Ending, I just feel the need to say its happy at the end, I promise it is, I'm on my vamp shit again and so is simon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lots of Angst, M/M, Parallel Universes, Sort Of, but also some kisses!, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned
Summary: Carry On Countdown Day 25 - Parallel Universe“That which we manifest is before us; we are the creators of our own destiny. Be it through intention or ignorance, our successes and our failures have been brought on by none other than ourselves.” - Garth SteinSimon goes rushing into danger and comes out knowing what he wants.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026942
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	By None Other

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY BE PREPARED FOR IMPLIED MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH? BUT, LIKE, IT'S IN A DREAM? NOBODY DIES, I PROMISE, BUT IT'S SORT OF IMAGINED? this shit is angsty as hell but I promise nobody is ACTUALLY dead.

I wish Penny were here. 

She could get me out of this with one impeccably articulated spell and I wouldn’t have to be standing in the dark, clutching the Sword of Mages so hard it’s making my palms hurt, wondering where the Humdrum is and how the hell I’m supposed to get out of this.

I know what he looks like now — _me_. Well, me as an eleven year old. And I can hear the sound of that infernal red ball bouncing in the distance. I’m terrified of stumbling on him and having to face myself. 

And alright, it’s my fault that I’m here. I know not to go running towards danger when I can help it. But this time, The Humdrum had threatened Penny and Agatha’s safety. (I mean, Agatha and I aren’t dating or whatever anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still give a damn about her.) 

Agatha, Penny, and I had been sitting out on the Great Lawn, watching Gareth make a fool of himself while trying to cast a new spell. He always ends up looking a bit silly solely because of the hip-thrusting-with-his-belt-buckle thing. Penny and I were trying not to laugh and Agatha was tossing her hair and smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world. I wish I’d taken a better mental picture because as soon as I’d turned to face Penny again, she was screaming. 

I don’t know that I can explain what I saw. I’m not as eloquent as Penny is — or even Baz, the silver-tongued bastard. But, from where I was sitting, there was a mirror-like wall in front of Penny and Agatha. They were reflected in the mirror, but their faces seemed to be… dripping or melting. Penny had, understandably, started yelling and putting up her ring to defend herself. Agatha had just stared at herself in horror. 

The familiar sucking feeling of the Humdrum accompanied it and while I’m still not sure why I didn’t have a creepy, melting reflection, I knew at that moment that the Humdrum wanted me. Not Penny. Not Agatha. Not even Gareth, who was still across the lawn, thrusting. 

I ran into the mirror. 

Thank Merlin I didn’t just smack into it and fall onto the grass like an utter numpty. Instead, I just passed right through it. 

" _In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good._ " 

And when I turned around, the Sword of Mages a comfortable and familiar weight in my hand, Agatha and Penny were disappearing ( _dripping_ ) out of my focus. 

Then, when I turned back (front? Where am I?), it was dark. Not quite pitch black — it was just light enough for me to see about a metre in front of me. But when I took a shuffling step forward, the sound of my footsteps echoed. 

And then the sound of a rubber ball hitting the floor, rhythmically bouncing. 

So here I am. Wishing I wasn’t so stupid and praying that I can fight my way out of this one. I don’t even have my wand on me — I left it in my room. Not that I’d even be able to use it right now. 

When I come upon a figure, I expect it to be a scruffy looking eleven year old in a ratty t-shirt and jeans. 

Instead, what I come across is far more horrifying. 

It’s me, now. Well, not _me now_ , but it’s certainly what I look like right now. It’s not a reflection, though, it’s off at an angle, like I’m watching a movie of myself. And even though I’ve stopped moving now, _he_ (I?) hasn’t. 

He (Other Simon) has got the Sword of Mages held aloft, and he looks just as terrified as I feel. I can’t help but be pissed off that The Humdrum is just showing me _myself_ . _I know what I look like, you little fucker._

And then, Other Simon’s eyes are wide. I don’t see what he sees, but the shock in his expression is quickly replaced with rage. Anger, frustration, hatred. All of those. It’s a lot to handle seeing on my own face (is that _really_ what I look like?). 

Other Simon lets out a snarling growl and surges forward with the Sword of Mages. Just as he does, a body falls in front of me and Other Simon disappears (melts. That seems to be a theme in this fucking fever dream I’m having). 

The body that fell is turned away from me, facing the way it would have if Other Simon had run it through with a sword. And, I reckon, he has. 

Even here, several paces away from the body, and unable to see its face, I know who it is. My heart drops past my stomach and into the fucking dream floor below me, down into the pits of hell. 

“ _Baz_ ,” I hear myself say. I’m practically out of my body. 

The Sword of Mages drops to the floor next to my feet and before I can stop myself, I’m rushing forward to kneel next to Baz’s body. I’m almost afraid to touch him. I still don’t know what sort of dream/hallucination/magickal brainfuck this is. But I know that I have to be sure that it’s Baz. 

It is. 

I carefully grip his shoulder and turn him over. He’s unnaturally cold. 

I can tell where Other Simon ( _I? — I hate this_ ) stabbed him — there’s blood saturating the front of his shirt and I can’t look at it too much or I start to feel a twisting sensation in my chest I can’t identify or handle. 

I think I expected this to feel good. I expected to feel vindicated. I won, right? Is this some sort of sick dream that shows me my future where I kill Baz, where I rid the World of Mages of my roommate? 

I don’t feel good. I’ve never wanted to _kill_ Baz — I always just thought I was supposed to because everyone ( _The Mage_ ) told me I had to. That it’s my fucking destiny or whatever. 

If this is what my _destiny_ feels like, I don’t want it. 

Baz’s eyes are closed and I stare at his face for any minuscule sign that he’s alright. My eyes get caught on his mouth. 

_Fangs._ I can see them. 

My heart skips and I feel a bubble of excitement — fucking vindication — hitch up in my throat. I swallow hard and it disappears. And what’s left is… guilt. 

Baz is a vampire. And he’s dead. 

The fangs look oddly natural in his mouth. I almost wonder if I wouldn’t have noticed them if I hadn’t been staring at him so intently. They’re fucking huge and they’re protruding over his bottom lip. He looks peaceful. Like he wasn't just run through with a sword by a person who-is-me-but-is-also-not-me. 

I gently slide my arm under Baz’s waist, pulling him into my lap. His head lolls back and I move to support it with my free hand. His hair is soft against my fingers. 

The wound looks worse up close. 

_This isn’t how it’s supposed to end._

Baz is always saying poetically idiotic shit about how we’re destined to be mortal enemies and we will be the ones who decide the future of the World of Mages, but I reckon I’ve not thought about the actual implications of that happening. 

And now. 

Baz is dead. 

He’s lying in my arms and I’m thinking about how lonely Mummer’s House will be without him and I’m dripping tears (when did I start crying?) onto the collar of his shirt. 

And I remember that _Baz isn’t dead._

I stand up, dropping the _Other Baz?_ from my arms. I wince at the way he hits the floor — boneless and lifeless. I pick up the Sword of Mages from where I left it and whirl around. 

“Come and fucking face me, you little prick!” I shout into the void. 

Nothing. Not even the sound of a bouncing ball. 

I consider attempting to go back the way I came, but I don’t know what direction that was now. I’m all turned around. 

And when I look back, Baz’s body is gone. 

And when I blink, I’m back on the Great Lawn. 

“ _Simon!_ ” 

I’m being assaulted by my frizzy-haired, wonderfully talented best friend. (We always seem to hug the most when I’ve almost died.) 

“Penny,” I immediately say, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her away. “What was that?” 

She shakes her head, and I notice Agatha behind her, looking anxious. “I don’t know,” she says. “But it was The Humdrum, right?” 

I nod. I can still feel the ghost of the sucking feeling, but I think it’s gone. 

“Why the hell would you go charging in there?” 

“It was the right thing to do,” I say. “I guess.” 

And then I remember Baz. And his body. And his _fangs._

“Penny,” I mutter, gripping her wrist quickly. “I have to go.” 

“Go?” she demands. “You just got back! Merlin, Simon, you can’t just run into an unknown magickal trap and then not tell me everything.” 

“Later,” I promise. I can hear her protesting as I go.

I run away from Penelope and Agatha, rushing towards the football pitch. I know he’s still there — he always ends up practicing around this time. I wonder if he felt The Humdrum. He always seems to be around when I’m in trouble. 

I’m not thinking about what I’m going to say to Baz. I just know that I have to get to him. 

Maybe a part of me is afraid that it was real. 

Baz is just where I thought he’d be — running drills on the pitch. 

“Baz!” I call. 

He looks up, the previously balanced football falling off of his knee. He barely spares it a second glance because I’m rushing up towards him. “What is it, Snow? Forget how to knot your tie?” 

Just like him to make a comment on my physical appearance. Fucking tosser. 

I can't help but be grateful that he’s alright, though. That my fever dream was just that — a dream. He’s here and fine and— 

“Snow?” 

I surge forward and press my hand against his shoulder. “Show me them,” I say. 

He tenses under my hold and I watch his hand fly to his pocket but he doesn’t pull out his wand just yet. _Hmmm._ “What the hell are you on about?” he demands. 

“The fangs, Baz,” I say, so fucking sure of myself. “Show me.” 

“Ah, this again,” he mutters, tugging his shoulder out of my grasp. 

Before he can say anything else, I’ve got my hand at my side and I’m murmuring, " _In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good._ " 

The Sword of Mages appears in my hand and I see Baz’s eyes flash with alarm, but also with something else— acceptance? Like he’s been waiting for this moment — he’s prepared to die by my hand on the football pitch in his football kit and his hair pulled up into an effortless top knot.

It makes my heart fucking ache. 

So I continue on with what I planned. 

I take the sword and slash open my palm on my left hand. I barely register the pain before I’m bringing up the hand towards Baz’s face. 

He goes wide-eyed. “Snow—” he starts to protest. Then he slaps a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

I drop the sword to the ground (I’ve been doing that a lot recently. This poor fucking sword) and step in towards Baz, tugging his hand away from his mouth. 

I don’t even bother to check if I can see the fangs. I already know what they’re going to look like — like they belong there. Instead, I do what I’ve been meaning to do for a long time now (I think). I kiss him. 

I grab him by the back of the neck (with my non-bloodied hand) and tug him into a kiss. 

He’s shocked. He’s frozen against my body and I know I’ve miscalculated this and I’m prepared to be cursed or something right about now, but then… 

He runs his tongue over my lips and I gasp and now I don’t have to see his fangs because I can _feel_ them. They’re sharp and _huge_ and fucking hot. I don’t know that fangs have ever turned me on before but I start sucking on one of them. 

I kiss him harder and he slips an arm around my waist. 

He ( _Baz! Baz fucking Pitch!_ ) is kissing me back. And I like it so much. 

“Fucking hell,” Baz snarls as he shoves my shoulders and pushes me away from him. “Do you often go around kissing your mortal enemies after maiming yourself, Snow?” he demands. 

I shake my head. “You’re not my mortal enemy.” 

“I’d beg to di—” 

“Shut up,” I say. And then, “I’m glad you’re not dead.” 

His eyebrows lift. “Well, of fucking course I’m not—” 

I cut him off again. “I don’t want to kill you, Baz! I don’t give a rat’s arse about what The Mage wants me to do to you or what my _destiny is._ I think—” I take a deep breath. And for all my lists of things not to think about and insisting that thinking just seems to muck everything up, this thought makes my chest feel light. “—I just want you.” 

It’s a lot to admit. And I’m not sure that Baz is taking it well. 

His face is almost pink (is that from exertion? Football? Snogging?) and he’s staring at me like I’ve grown an extra few heads. 

“Baz,” I say. “What do you say we stop fighting?” 

“And what do you propose we do instead?” he sneers. But it’s not as antagonistic as it usually is, I don’t think. There’s no bite to his words. 

“This,” I say, and I grab him by the neck again and kiss him. 

And I kiss him until Penelope has found us and spelled us apart (she thought we were fighting). And then I kiss him some more later when we’re in our room. 

I only really stop kissing him when we’re lying in his bed later that night and Baz pulls away from my mouth with beautiful swollen lips to whisper, “You’re my destiny,” he says. 

I nod. “And you’re mine.” 

And it means something different now. 

A phrase I’ve heard my whole life. 

I think it’s my destiny to snog Baz Pitch.

**Author's Note:**

> deus ex machina but make it penelope bunce <3
> 
> I just like this idea so much and I really might rewrite it better and longer sometime because this is not as good as I want it to be.


End file.
